Diarmuid hit the sand like a sack of flour, lungs burning as air was forced out of his chest by the impact. He hadn't even a moment to collect himself before he was launching himself away, Arondight cleaving a gash in the sand where his body had been.

He inhaled sharply, replenishing himself of much needed oxygen before the engine of his body could sputter to a stop. Warm red trickled down from a gash on his now split brow, obstructing his vision, but Diarmuid dared not look away from the black-clad demon staring him down.

Every second that ticked by, his arms felt more and more like lead. Trembling fingers flexed over the stained shafts of his spears to dismiss the pins and needles that pricked on his nerves, fully aware that the magic shrouds that concealed them were now stained with the blood of his palms. Blocking Lancelot's heavy blows and the fresh wounds on his hands mixed about as well as one could imagine.

He let out a long, shaky exhale, trying to calm the heaving of his chest the best that he could. Sweat was trickling down his neck in droves. It hurt his pride to admit it, but the strength of his individual arms were struggling to keep up with his opponent's two-handed strikes. Blocking them was about as effective as attempting to stop a running car with his bare hands.

The realization came to him like a slap to the face. If he didn't change tactics, Diarmuid was going to lose.

The sharp screech of static bore into his eardrums like an industrial drill, as the pounding in his head increased in intensity. The edges of his vision were beginning to cloud, but Diarmuid fought back the darkness with every ounce of will he had. There was a battle to win, he reminded himself, trying to focus on the slouched figure of the enemy before him. He couldn't afford to shut down like he had before. There were enough scars on his palms already.

His orange eyes twitched to steal a glance at the mats, which were so far behind Lancelot now it was almost hard to believe how much the man had pushed him. No, it wasn't hard to believe, Diarmuid decided. He was forced to blink, as the scarlet warmth covering his right eye now trickled down his cheek and off his chin.

The gash on his brow was proof of that, since it was a direct result of Diarmuid trying to dodge a strike aimed at his jugular. If Lancelot was merely fighting in this tournament for sport, he would have pulled back just before his strike would have hit home but he didn't.

Lancelot was fighting to kill .

The spearman narrowed his eyes. He should have realized it earlier. The fervor behind his attacks, the sheer lethal intent following the slashes of Lancelot's sword, they were all reminiscent of a soldier fighting a desperate war.

If Diarmuid were even a millisecond slower, he would have been dead.

The dark voices in his head burst into a thundering roar, but Diarmuid blocked out the poisonous tendrils that threatened to take over.

He could still win this. He could still secure the victory. If he could just bear the pounding on his head a little longer, if he could just focus–

Lancelot flicked his blade free of Diarmuid's blood, lips twisted in disgust.

The lancer stiffened, the thunderstorm in his mind quieting in an instant. His headspace was clear as he stabbed his short spear into the sand beside him, giving up the confusing advantage of ambidexterity in favor of adding more power and strength to Gae Dearg.

He wiped his palm upward from his chin and clamped it over his brow to stop the bleeding. The spearman couldn't care less about the red mess he left on his cheek, there were more pressing matters in the form of the dark devil of a man in front of him. Specifically, his defeat.

The midnight shroud that sealed his red weapon dissipated instantaneously as he drew the weapon back into the standard stance.

The glare he leveled at his opponent was downright murderous, a crystallization of all the hate and resentment he'd accumulated for Grainné, for Fionn, for Kayneth and all the others that dared trample upon his honor as a knight.

He breathed, finally giving in to the wicked shadows in the dark crevices of his mind.

Lancelot was fighting to kill. Now, why the fuck shouldn't he?


The French knight batted the red spear's tip away from his heart and dodged out of pure instinct right when the staff would have bashed into his chest. Diarmuid gave him no space to breathe, twirling his spear at speeds he could barely track with his eyes.

"You slander my name like you have the right to judge!" Diarmuid growled, lunging forward only for his spear to lodge itself a foot deep into the ground. He cursed as Lancelot's evasion quickly turned into a rush assault and yanked the red weapon upward to meet the black-stained blade.

Sparks flew as metal ground metal, but Diarmuid was prepared this time, planting his feet and lowering his center. With a huff, he launched his arms forward, throwing Lancelot off balance long enough for him to drop and sweep the man's feet from under him.

"I didn't seduce my queen on purpose," he spat as his enemy fell onto his back, winded. His eyes were dark as he stomped a boot on the man's chest, pressing down as the French knight thrashed beneath. " You did."

Lancelot roared before Diarmuid could point Gae Dearg at his neck, grabbing onto the man's leg and throwing him off in an incredible display of strength. He snatched Arondight from the sand to strike at his foe, but the spearman was faster, forcing the ex-Round Table member into defense before he could blink.

Intuition was the only thing that kept Lancelot's head from being lobbed off as Arondight struggled to keep up with the longer spear. Even his eyes, that were fast enough to keep up with his king's holy sword, saw nothing but the red afterimages in Gae Dearg's wake.

The swordsman was losing ground every minute, his feet forced backward by the sheer power behind the bastard's arching slashes. Already, they'd passed the arena's midpoint, and still the libertine did not let up, not even for a breath. He thought the fiend had given him the advantage when he finally put away the double-wielding parlor trick, but all that did was give Diarmuid one less weapon to channel his strength into. Lancelot's brow began to drip with sweat, his body finally beginning to feel the impact of the enemy's undistributed strength.

Diarmuid's orange eyes shone like those of a mythical beast, one side bathed in blood, the other narrowed to near slits. He was a hunter closing in on his prey, every swing of his weapon bringing him one step closer to making the kill.

There was no room to move. Lancelot couldn't attack without losing his neck, he couldn't dodge without exposing his chest. He needed an opening, and needed it before the ache in his fingers made him lose his grip. Just a slip of the hand, just some misplaced footing, something, anything.

There!

Lancelot swung his sword with all the strength he could muster, meeting Diarmuid's weapon mid-strike. The impact sent them both flying backwards, scrambling for stability. Lancelot's hand was shoved into the sand as he battled inertia, but the lancer found it first, kicking up dust as he propelled himself forward like a cheetah.

Before Lancelot could fully stand, their weapons locked once again, Arondight parallel to the ground as Diarmuid ramped up the pressure.

"You tell me to stay away from your king as if I would hurt her," Diarmuid snarled, vision going completely red as he staggered his opponent. "You neglect to remember that it was not I who betrayed her. It was you."

Lancelot planted his feet as they began to slip backwards, hurling curses at Diarmuid's bloodied countenance as his black sword quivered against the red staff. Lancer only widened his grip on his weapon's shaft, using the sturdier grip to force the taller man to his knees.

The Frenchman bit back the " Shut your mouth! " hanging on the edge of his tongue, stealing a glance at the mats, where his liege sat, radiant in the moonlight. Even if he tried, he couldn't block out the image of her, on her deathbed, pale and still, with white flowers covering the gashes all over her body.

How much did she have to endure, without him there to lighten the load? Without Gawain, who left her side just to keep Lancelot away? Without Kay, who couldn't bear to watch Arturia suffer in the aftermath of the affair's reveal.

"You fucked her wife," Diarmuid snarled, dredging up all of Lancelot's traumas from where they lay buried six feet under the man's psyche. "You weren't cursed with a charm, where's your excuse?"

Guinevere's distressed countenance surfaced in Lancelot's vision, forcing him to his knees. Arturia's death impacted them both, tearing into their souls like a chainsaw through paper. Whatever beauty the queen had left was disfigured by tears and a never-ending frown that wrinkled her brow. Eventually, even hidden away as they were, she wore a shroud to hide her face and the tears that never ceased to flow.

Whatever solace they'd found in each other before could no longer fill the gaping hole in their chests where their hearts used to be, so they chose solitude, the face of the other only reminding them of their sin. Guinevere entered the nunnery. Lancelot rotted away alone.

"Do not speak of matters you do not understand!" the traitor raged, moving his right arm to the flat of his blade and using the leverage to shove Diarmuid off. The split-second difference in force caused the red spear to smash against his pauldron and nick his skin, but Lancelot couldn't care any less about the wound. When they started, all he wanted to do was make the bastard feel enough pain he wouldn't even think of coming near her again. But this fight was no longer just a duel.

No, this was personal.

"You collapsed the foundations of the kingdom Arturia dedicated her whole life to protect!" the bastard yelled, coming at him with a lateral strike that made it no closer to Lancelot's body than the Earth from the Sun.

" Silence, cur!" Lancelot screamed, the rasp in his tone tearing into his throat til it felt like it had been run over with sandpaper. Diarmuid answered with a battlecry of his own, hammering the staff of his spear into his opponent's side with strength that shattered bones.

Rage boiled in Lancelot's veins as he stabbed Arondight in front of him. He only barely made his mark, leaving a gash on Diarmuid's thigh. The wound didn't even make the bastard flinch, and in the next moment, Gae Dearg was in his face again, held back by a shaking Arondight.

" You left her alone to fight on that hill," Diarmuid snapped, the venom in his tone igniting pure, unadulterated fury in its target.

"You left her to die."

Lancelot's every nerve ignited into a hungry hellfire, with an appetite that could only be satiated by the blood of the bastard that stood in front of him. The red that dripped from the scoundrel's eye was not enough, the blood that stained his black blade was not enough.

Lancelot would not even be satisfied with the libertine's death. That was too kind. No, the wretch had to be drenched in his own bodily fluids, dripping scarlet lifeblood from the stubs that used to be his limbs. Diarmuid O'Dyna had to feel pain so great he would beg for the release of his soul but Lancelot would not give it. He would let him bleed out, make him regret the moment the cur ever dared to cross him.

Lancelot kicked his opponent backward, but the persistent prick did not stay down, skidding to a crouch and snarling at him with bared teeth.

He stabbed Arondight into the sand and tore his fingers into the underside of his vambraces. His eyes never left Diarmuid's as he unbuckled the fasteners on his wrist, practically ripping off the protective metal glove as soon as it gave way.

Arturia's pleading voice fell on deaf ears as he threw down the gauntlet, the piece of armor skidding to a stop before Diarmuid's boots.

The air went completely still as every knight in the vicinity registered what Lancelot had just done. It was the gravest of insults, far worse than slander, far more damaging than banishment. It was an action only ever taken when disagreements could no longer possibly be settled by anything other than either of their deaths.

This was more binding than even a geis . If Diarmuid picked up the damn glove, they would be locked in a battle that would never end til one of them surrendered or gave up the ghost. And everyone knew the first wasn't even an option.

By the anguish in the libertine's expression, Diarmuid knew exactly what it meant.

In the crowd, the other spear wielder yelled at the top of his lungs for the Irishman to stop, to not answer the challenge, but the feral look in the man's sunset eyes told Lancelot he hadn't even heard his friend's words.

The bastard picked up the metal glove just like he expected, officially sealing their fates.

"To the death."


Her legs moved before she could think about her actions, running as fast as she could toward two of the most important people in her life.

She could hear her name in the voices of her brother, her wizard, in Cú's the loudest as he ran right behind her, but she didn't stop. Arondight had just cut across Diarmuid's thigh, Lancelot had gaping holes in his shoulder and back, but neither knight stopped for a second.

"Both of you, cease this foolishness right now!"

Her words were lost to them as Diarmuid shattered Lancelot's skull with the shaft of his spear, sending him sprawling into the ground. A guttural scream echoed through the cove as the long-haired one kicked himself up and drove Arondight straight through Diarmuid's side.

No!

Arturia broke into a sprint, fear crushing her heart like paper. No. No.

Strong arms wrapped themselves around her body, stopping her in her tracks. Arturia thrashed against them, arms reaching for the two on the beach, who were clawing each other apart like two beasts fighting over territory.

Cú desperately screamed in her ear you can't, it's the knight honor code, Arturia, I don't know what to do, but she couldn't care less as she wrestled herself out of his grip. Both knights were staggering, bleeding out in more places than she could count. She can't lose them.

She just can't.

That was the final thought she had in her mind before the world tipped sideways and her vision faded to black.

" Arturia!?"

Cú was screaming her name like a madman when she fell limp into his arms. His panicked voice, bordering on desperate, echoed through the cove as he shook her limp body to get her to open her eyes.

The clanging of weapons in the background finally stopped as the two knights took notice, the rage on their faces morphing into shared horror when their eyes landed on her, deathly still in Lancer's arms.

And then they were rushing to her, weapons forgotten, dripping blood all over the sand. Diarmuid fell first, his feet catching on each other as he was robbed of his consciousness, and then Lancelot, who stumbled into the sand dunes as his eyes rolled into his head.

One by one, all those who were once Servants crumpled to the sand like puppets who had been freed of their strings.


Arturia blinked, her eyes fluttering open to a familiar watery sight. She looked below, where her feet touched the water's surface, and through the ripples saw the fractured sky dome of her mindscape. She was standing on the reverse side of the lake again, if the bubbles traveling downward from her lips to the lake's surface were any indication.

All around her, in the depths of blue, were fragments of the sky, like large glittering crystal boulders suspended in space. Images flitted across their surface. Sights she once saw, faces she once knew, people she once loved, all reduced to fleeting, wispy visions.

She was in the dreamscape, or under it, in this case.

My king! There is a traitor in our midst!

The voice was familiar, echoing in the space around her as she tried to locate its source. Her eyes landed on a boulder twice her size, just a little distance from her. She touched her fingers to the glassy surface, finding Agravain's stoic face where her reflection should have been.

I'm terribly sorry, Arthur. Your queen is a traitorous one, sleeping with Lancelot when she should have been devoted to you. You must arrange a stoning at once!

It was a memory. One that happened a short while before her reign imploded.

I know, my knight.

She mouthed the words just as the vision in the crystal did, and watched poor Agravain's expression twist in anguish as he registered her words. She had known for months by the time the man came to her with this concern. She'd long forgiven her queen, knowing that as a woman herself, she could not give Guin the love she wanted. She'd long forgiven Lancelot, who she knew could give Guin just that. They deserved each other, and happiness, as far as she was concerned.

Are you not even upset, milord?

The crystal showed her Agravain's utter disbelief at her non-reaction, his eyes wide open and eyebrows knitted together.

She wasn't. Of course, she wasn't. Why should she be? Both of them were dear friends, they only deserve the best.

A million different emotions traveled across Agravain's face as he stood from his kneeling position, before finally settling on resolution. The her from this vision would think that Agravain would let it go, that she had resolved his worries. In hindsight, she should have been more careful.

She knew what came afterward, that the dark-haired knight would tell his comrades, would drink at the tavern and ignite whispers that would shake her kingdom.

Traitorous queen. Adulterer.

The vision in the glass morphed into the familiar figure of Guinevere, with her brown hair in tatters, her forest-colored eyes puffy from the tears. Soon, the people would demand her death, and King Arthur would be forced to answer their call. Even if, deep inside, she didn't want to.

Arturia couldn't bear to watch anymore, and with a flick of her wrist, she pushed the memory away and directed her eyes downwards to where she could see the sky through the rippling surface of the lake. Kiritsugu summoned her to her dreamscape again, she should go up to meet him.

She broke the lake's placid surface face first, feeling the gentle hug of the water leave her skin as she ascended through to the semi-permeable topside.

Green eyes opened to an impossibly bright blue with no sun in sight. Water rippled from the tips of her toes, disturbing the surface of the once placid lake she was standing on. Up above her floated similar blue crystal fragments comprising the sky, the ghosts of her memories flowing across their surface. Drops of black still periodically dripped from the cracks in between.

The king looked around and found her target. Her father's crown was where it always was, suspended a meter above the lake. That was all the confirmation she needed that this was the same dreamscape as before. Now, all she had to do was wait.

The dome rumbled as she remembered what had happened before she was forced into this rendezvous. Kiritsugu couldn't have chosen a worse time. Her friends could be losing their lives this very moment. She didn't care what he had to say, she needed to go back, she needed to stop that foolish death match, she had to or she would never be able to live with herself this mission be damned.

Her thoughts were interrupted by frantic splashing to her right, where hands were flailing in the air as they broke the lake's surface. Arturia immediately closed her fingers around the wrist and pulled Cú through the water, the latter ungraciously clinging to her as his feet struggled to register that the lake surface was solid enough to stand on.

"Arturia, oh thank fuck!" he said, when he finally came to his feet, accepting that he was indeed standing on water just like she was. Wet splashes preceded the hands on her shoulders. He looked like he was checking her for signs of sickness, but let go almost immediately, noticing she didn't even look like she had sustained injuries. Not even from their fight.

Cú inspected himself, knowing Arturia had left so many bruises on his body after their duel, but he was similarly unscathed.

"What the…"

Arturia cut him off, the feelings in her chest threatening to burst forth if she didn't. "What happened to them?"

Cú's expression went from concerned to sullen and he turned, walking back and forth clumsily as he ran both his hands through his hair. He seemed to be struggling between juggling anguish and confusion as his mind processed that he was walking on water, but eventually the weight of the situation they were in won out.

Diarmuid was currently locked in mortal combat with Lancelot. Hell, maybe one of them was already dead, and the only two people who could stop them were stuck in this... this ...where the hell were they?

"Hell if I know," he admitted, the frustration in his chest choking his voice til it came out like a pathetic whimper. "You...you fell. I had barely caught you when they came running and then I woke up here."

He tilted his head back and let himself crumple to the water's surface, holding his head in his hands.

"This a real shit show ain't it?" He declared, massaging his temples and running fingers through his bluish strands. "We should have told ya."

Cú's admission deepened the crease in her already crossed eyebrows. She didn't have to look up to know the fragile sky had begun to fracture again, she could hear the glass-like crunch as the anguish in her chest infected her psyche.

Cú's frustration tugged his lips downward. Months ago, he couldn't care less about being resurrected, thinking he had already accomplished everything in his short life. Being summoned in the Holy Grail War and being forced to serve his Master's killer only reinforced the thought that this may have been a waste of time.

But in the short while he was walking the Earth again he'd found an unlikely family, one with the same love for fighting as he had. He basically had an adopted brother now, for the gods' sakes, they borrowed each others' clothes and burnt food together and everything. Diarmuid literally put a roof over his head, and thanks to Arturia Cú was basically set up for life. Then there was Iskandar, who always came by for lunch, who had taken him riding into the sunset a few times just to see how far they could make it before the light left the sky.

Suddenly his existence was more than just preventing the destruction of the world. He was living for himself. Doing things he never could back in the day. Hell, in just a few years, he would be older than he was when he died, and he...looked forward to it.

But after today, he felt the halcyon days he'd been living were coming to an end. Even if he didn't end up losing his best friend, Lancelot's death would break Arturia's heart, he just knew it. She would never look at Diarmuid the same, their dynamic would crash and burn, and so would Cú's little world.

"Told me what?" Arturia asked, her voice like the gentle caress of the wind. Cú stifled the need to clasp his fingers around the hand on his shoulder, even though he knew Arturia wouldn't judge his need for stability. She wasn't like that, which was refreshing to him considering his track record with royals.

He owed her the truth. "Have… Diarmuid…"

Cú gave and exasperated sigh, berating himself internally for not finding the words. He wasn't used to speaking about such heavily emotional topics. Especially when there wasn't any alcohol around.

"The scars on Diarmuid's palms...ya know about them, yes?"

Arturia nodded and Cú looked away, staring down into the depths of the lake beneath him. "We've never...discussed it. But it's happened a couple of times. He gets this look in his eyes…"

Cú gestured his hands in front of himself, words failing him once again.

"As if he fights an internal battle and he's losing."

"...Yes," Cú confirmed, his voice softening when he met her eyes. She'd seen it. The look on her face told him so. How long had she known about it, he wondered, for her to look so wholeheartedly worried?

"Lancelot, he…" Cú grimaced, unused to such a serious tone to his voice. "Feck, Arturia, I don' know—He's a, a...uh a trigger?"

Arturia sat next to him on the surface of the water, wondering how things could go so wrong so fast. Just a few minutes ago, they were, dare she say it, enjoying themselves. Her three worlds, her knights, the Fourth War Servants, and Cú and Medusa, they were all together in the same place sharing food and drink. Hell, Gilgamesh was there, and he purposely wasn't pissing everyone else off.

"How did this happen? I wasn't aware they talked or—"

"The time we met up on the street," Cú answered, recalling their interactions that day, "It seemed Lancelot was not a fan of your friendship with him. For his past."

Arturia's eyes widened, a slouch appearing in her usual dignified posture. Like a flower dehydrated, she wilted, curling into herself as she drew ripples on the water's surface.

"I thought they'd get along," she admitted, filtering her hands through the wet floor. "Lancelot was fiercely loyal to me. They share the same values."

"That so?" Cú asked, his face betraying how much he disagreed. Aside from playful, half-hearted insults during sparring sessions, he didn't know the blonde king to curse others the way Lancelot did to Diarmuid. "Well, it certainly didn' look like it, with the way he was insulting Diarmuid's pride, warning him not to come near you as if his presence was poisonous."

Arturia's eyes widened. That didn't sound like Lancelot at all, but even if she wanted to retort, she couldn't. All the proof she needed was in the grudge-match that occured—that could still be going on—considering all her knight's actions.

She still couldn't believe he'd gone so far as to throw down the gauntlet. Even she, with Britain's many enemies, had never once attempted to do so.

Waves crashed into their heels as two more bodies suddenly dropped into their plane of existence. The two knights whipped around, surprised eyes registering two familiar figures rising from the depths, the blood from their battered bodies staining the lake scarlet.

They didn't need to speak, not even share a look before they took off towards the bloodied knights, wrapping their arms around each a split second before they could charge at each other again.

"That's enough, D!" Cú yelled, his efforts to drag his friend away proving futile as Diarmuid thrashed against his grip. Arturia wasn't faring any better, lunging from side to side to prevent Lancelot's advance. All her words seemed to fall on deaf ears as her knight charged around her, his eyes blown wide and feral like a crazed warrior.

With a sharp heave, the Irish spearman broke free of his friend's grip and rushed toward the long-haired knight, tearing through the water's surface at an inhuman speed.

Just then, a large fragment of the sky dropped between them, splitting the lake. Two large waves thrice Lancelot's height rose from the impact, looming over the Servants as either pair tried and failed to make it to safer grounds. The wave crashed into them, sending them spiraling away from each other as the water beat them around like ice in a blender, before finally spitting them out on either end of the sky dome, chests heaving for the sweet taste of air.

Arturia's small fingers locked around Lancelot's wrist before he could even think of charging across the lake again.

"Enough, Lance," she pleaded, panting slightly as water cascaded down her figure. She glanced behind him and saw Cú doing the same, quietly placating the rage festering inside Diarmuid til murder finally left the latter's sunset eyes.

Lancelot stiffened in her touch, and as if a ghost had just given up possession of his body, his shoulders relaxed. Ease settled into his posture with every breath, until it was finally his standard, stoic facade looking into her eyes.

She flexed the fingers barely able to close around his wrist, unable to trust him not to rush out the minute she loosened her grip. He looked calm, but looks were often deceiving. What guarantee did she have, that he would not sprint across the lake like a dog freed of its leash?

"Heed your master's command, mongrel," Gilgamesh spat, rising from the water next to Arturia. "A dog that disobeys is of no use to their owner."

Arturia whipped her head around and met his red eyes, surprised Kiritsugu had included Gilgamesh in the summon at all. Lancelot did the same, glaring at the king's direction as he eased out of Arturia's grip, but made no further move to attack.

Across the lake on Cú's side appeared Iskandar, followed by Medusa and then Heracles. Just a few moments after, the familiar braided head of Caster rose at Arturia's side, confused at first, then understanding.

"So soon?" the woman asked, wary eyes flicking up toward Gilgamesh and then back to the King of Knights.

"It has been a month. I am unsure whether or not it is my former Master who dictates the occurrence of the seals, but it seems so," she replied, aware of the many eyes on her figure.

For the most part, Arturia was relieved. If both Diarmuid and Lancelot were here, their physical bodies were safe. As safe as they could be, bleeding out on the sand, that is. She trusted Merlin and her knights would take care of them.

"Do you mind disclosing our location, Arturia, before that buffoon goes insane from losing his bearings?" Gilgamesh asked, the imperative tone of his voice imminent. Sure enough, Iskandar was looking up at the sky and around him, as if he was feeling lost for the very first time in his life.

"Perhaps it is your nature, or perhaps your frame of mind, but you attract unworthy company by the dozen, woman," Gilgamesh commented, turning his nose up at the two violet-haired Servants as Arturia tried to communicate with the King of Conquerors across the lake. The insult clearly unhinged the two on her side, but Gilgamesh either didn't mind or didn't care. "Inform your Master it is unwise to abuse my patience by daring to categorize me with those of lesser rank than you and I."

The retort Arturia had on her lips was silenced by the familiar shadow of black appearing before her, one with stoic black eyes and a blank expression on his face.

"Kiritsugu."